


put a little bit of sunshine in your life

by todareistodo



Series: have we met before? [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: a morning in portugal





	put a little bit of sunshine in your life

**Author's Note:**

> title from the shining by badly drawn boy but also inspired by banana pancakes by jack johnson (00s acoustic your mum loves? yes pls)

You kiss his jaw, lips pressed to the lightly freckled skin that’s warm and slightly rough with stubble. He smiles against the top of your head as you lean against his shoulder, blonde tipped curls in his mouth, no doubt.

 

“Beautiful day.”

 

You hum in reply, fingers twirling round the drawstring of his swim shorts, pulling tight so your finger goes numb, unravelling it and tugging it straight, only to pick it up again. It’s compulsive, almost, and he doesn’t seem to mind, lips sometimes pressing against your forehead absentmindedly. His eyes are watching the sea, you know, the gentle rise and fall of the waves, surface actually sparkling and transparent turquoise like stained glass. Out of sight is pale sand, that looks beautiful but sticks to the soles of your feet and makes you whinge until he takes pity, pulls you over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift with a playful smack on your arse that has you both laughing happily, easily. Your toes feel raw after the heat of the sand, always, because you haven’t yet learnt to bring those criminally ugly rock pooling shoes. Everything feels raw, or stripped back, maybe, devoid of the glitz and glamour and general farce that cloaks most of your life. It makes you feel vulnerable but leaves you light.

 

“Almost as beautiful as you,”

 

You blush as easily as you always have done; coy as you always have been at his compliments. He used to think you play it up but maybe the awkwardness in your gaze and the embarrassment in your smile, one day, showed him otherwise. You think he’s beautiful too, of course, not that you tell him much. He’s beautiful in the way the sea is, the way the crystal sky is. Too perfect. You’re more like the lavender and wildflowers that sway in the breeze of the field but that’s okay, because he picks them up and threads them behind your ear anyway. Kisses you smoothly, hands on cheeks, eyes closed.

 

“Fancy breakfast?”

 

You nod, reluctantly releasing his drawstring to settle back, slipping off his lap onto your own chipped white garden chair. The metal burns a little under your naked thighs and you sigh. The sky is pale blue, his hair blonde and gleaming in the devastating honesty of the sun. Miraculously, his skin is still even, unblemished but you suppose he’s used to this baking heat, even before midday, the sun on his neck and the light in his eyes. It makes him happy, and that’s all it takes to make you happy too.

 

You’re more of a LA beachfronts, or Ibiza club floors guy. Greek clifftops at a push, but every part of you had wanted to do this for Eric, to see him in the place he defines as happiness, because you knew it’d be beautiful. You weren’t quite expecting how his eyes would glisten when you gave him the plane tickets, or the way his smile would shine constantly from the moment his hands touched them till the second he gave them away. Maybe you underestimated just how much he loves this or maybe how much he loves you. You’re happy for the two lines to blur.

 

It’s not that this isn’t amazing; it’s beautiful. It’s white-washed villas and cool interiors you only get in southern Europe, that wood and peach colour scheme nonexistent at home. It’s lazy days and relaxed nights, too much wine and slow-dancing to songs you don’t understand, eyes softening at Portuguese that rolls off the tongue, and so many family and friends. It’s understanding what he misses and why he does. You feel oddly touched that he chooses to share it with you.

 

“Del?” He nudges you, soft hand on your shoulder, rubbing against your bruised collarbone, thumb dragging deliberately as a reminder. You turn your head, smile up at him and take it all in. Pink flowers climbing open glass doors, a field of fruit trees and lazy flowers, the sea in the distance and the man you adore. It’s impossible to understand, so you don’t. There’s a fun, and excitement, still, in not getting it. Feeling lucky everyday, shocked, that that one step became a year, one kiss became love.

 

“Diet?” You smirk, because you may be prone to sentimentality and nostalgia more severely than you let on, but you can’t let it show. You do, through plane tickets and whispered words at midnight and stolen kisses. The box of photographs you can’t believe you bothered printing, or the way your mind rambles on and on in the silence you leave between yourselves, that’s for you to know. You want to buy a disposable camera, because you know that’s how Eric remembers his childhood, and you want it to be how you remember now. There’s 5 million people who want to remember now with you, and gladly will online, but these two weeks are yours. You want to contain it, somehow, keep it safe, under lock and key.

 

“Pancakes?”

 

You nod again and smile, helping each other through the sliding doors with kisses and stroking hands. The radio’s turned on, something you don’t understand that’s acoustic and kind of folky, that Eric immediately starts singing, gently and calmly, sliding around the kitchen as you make coffee and get orange juice and watch fondly. He winks at you, and you giggle, shove him playfully. Ask if you can go to the beach after breakfast, yes please let’s get a pedalo and you laugh again.

 

This is it, you think, because you do a lot, and _it_ is everything and nothing all at once. _It_ is another guitar song, in English this time, something about banana pancakes and sleeping in, Eric making breakfast and kissing you on the cheek in between. It’s sun and sea and punctured lilos that send you both flailing into clear sea and spluttering with laughter, light and happy and free. Loved.

 

“I’m happy.” He tells you, plate of pancakes placed in front of you, warm hand stroking along your jaw, face relaxed and content. Everything forgotten, who even were you anyway? You’re just _us_ , Eric and Dele, shirt numbers and stats irrelevant. Backgrounds, and things back home, leagues and matches, cold, wet London Luton awaiting at the turn in of another ticket, nothing. Just the sun bouncing off blonde hair and tanned skin, hands on thighs and smiles so wide eyes crinkle. “This is happy.”

 

Yes, it is, you think. This is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> this is somewhat pointless but i had some bad news and i wrote this to cheer me up (hence the songs inspiring it - they make me cry - but also seemed to fit the mood nicely). it was very relaxing and calming to write and surprisingly easy, no clue why everything i’ve done so far for this fandom has been so lovey dovey though  
> comments welcome!


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